The Slaughter Study
by Covenlock
Summary: Curiosity fuels when Sherlock discovers the Murder House's existence and he immediately sets out to investigate the place. However, with a mind working like a machine, he sees things that he thought could never roam the earth: the dead. Through insanity, mystification, and horror, read as Sherlock Holmes and John Watson unravel the veracity of the Victorian haunted house.


A/N: So, this spontaneous and wildly insane idea popped into my head the other day of doing a Sherlock + American Horror Story crossover story. And voila, it's born. I have lots of hope for this fanfiction, so I hope you enjoy it and please leave reviews. Thank you x

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Normal definitely wasn't the word that could properly fit the Harmon house—well, the Murder House. Ever since Ben, Vivien, and Violet had moved into the large home, all sorts of supernatural and eerie occurrences had taken place, making them wonder what in the world was causing it all. Ghosts, lost souls, demons? Constance, their next-door neighbor, said that it was the dead who had been killed in the house. Nora and Charles Montgomery passed away in 1926, along with their child. In 1947, the dentist Dr. Curan killed Elizabeth Short and dismembered her body. Sister Jude killed Missy Stone in 1949. Loraine Baxter killed her husband, William, after she discovered he had an affair. God, there were so many fatalities in the house that it chilled anyone's bones when they heard about it.

And that was what intrigued the consulting detective in London, England: Sherlock Holmes. He heard about the Murder House through Lestrade, who had been doing research for a case and stumbled upon an article about the famous place in California.

"Sherlock, you're telling me you want to take a plane all the way to California just so you can figure out what's wrong with the house?!" Lestrade shouldn't have been so surprised, but somehow he was… the taller of the two would do anything to solve an enigma, even if it meant flying across the entire bloody planet. Sacrifices would be made.

"Everyone is saying it's haunted and both you and I know that's not true, right? Then there's something everyone is missing. I have to find out what it is." Sherlock's eyes were eager, a certain shine to the blue color there which clearly meant he was getting more excited about it than he should.

"Fine. I'm not going to that place, not taking risks. Have fun."

"Oh, I will." And with that, the man in the coat strode out the building, heading back to 221B Baker Street and finding John sitting down on his armchair, typing on his laptop.

"John, we're going to America."

His eyes shot up from the screen, eyebrows knitting together in complete confusion. It was so bloody abrupt, but this was /Sherlock/ and almost always he was like this.

"What?"

"You heard me." He removed his blue scarf and coat, setting them aside as he approached his own computer resting on the table beside the window, flipping the top open and logging into his account.

"Um… Why America? Is it for a case?"

Sherlock couldn't stop the side of his lip that wanted to quirk upwards. "Of sorts. Come look." He pulled up Google Maps and typed in the address _939 Berro Drive, LA 90068_. Up came a house consisting of red bricks and white windows, a front portion of it shaped like a tower but the rest of it was shaped normally, an upside down V forming the charcoal grey roof. Black gates shielded people from entering, the pathway matching the house's material. It did give off an eerie sort of feeling, especially with all the vines growing across the front wall of the home.

"It's called the 'Murder House'. Apparently there have been a plentiful of homicides, suicides, and cannibalism that have taken place in this house ever since it was first built," Sherlock explicated, opening a new tab and typing in the name of the house, locating a link that described its history.

There was a photograph at the top of the page depicting a woman with blond curls holding a small baby wrapped in white cloth, her husband sitting down beside her in a chair.

"'Nora and Charles Montgomery, and their son photographed in the house, which was built in 1922. The month is unknown. Charles, who was a doctor, formed a strange obsession with resurrecting dead animals, and his wife began to do abortions in their basement. One day, one of Mr. Montgomery's patients boyfriends kidnapped their child, Thaddeus, and dismembered him. Upon discovering the information, Charles sewed the body parts back together. Soon, he brought his son back to life as the 'Infanata'. He was said to have been blood thirsty, which is why Nora attempted to kill it before shooting her husband and herself in the head. Their child is said to still remain in the basement of the house.'" Sherlock was disgusted at the thought as he read the text on the website aloud, scrolling down further to see what other recorded deaths there were.

"That's sickening," John commented, cringing in the slightest as he took a glimpse of the photo. "God, and you want to visit that place?"

"I'm curious. This all seems like it's off a horror television show."

They read through the next few stories and John felt as if he could've hurled right there and then just reading about the demises. Definitely something he didn't want to get involved in, but he knew Sherlock would use persuasion on him…. No, he wouldn't go. No.

"John, I think I can get us a plane for tomorrow morning to fly to California. We'll have to pack tonight."

"Wait, wait, wait… You're telling me that you want to go to that crazy house—"

"Murder house."

"Whatever. You want to go there? What if all of that is true? The ghosts and all of that. You can never be sure."

John's surprise actually seemed to baffle him for a moment, head cocking just so to one side for a half-second. The truth was, his semi-frightened comments made him want to go even more than before.

"It's impossible for the afterlife to lurk on earth, John. Nothing is going to happen other than maybe… a bug crawling up the underside of your shirt and scaring you." The thought of that made him almost, /almost/ grin but he was in the middle of a coercion process and didn't want to break character just yet. "I'm going."

"I'm not." The army doctor's tone was firm, crossing his arms as he walked back to his own laptop and plopped down on the chair, going back to typing on his blog. "And you're not making me go."

"Yes, I am."

"What makes you think you can do that?"

"You'll come with me anyways. You always do. And I'd—"

"Yes, you'd be lost without your blogger, I've heard that sycophantically repetitive comment more than enough times, Sherlock. Still not going."

Now there was a pout on his face. Whether they truly were going to agree was debatable of course. But John dealt with him… the same as he dealt with every person, but just with a squeeze more effort seeing how stubborn he was. The only thing that culled Sherlock's curiosity about his friend's adamance was when he refused to look up at him again. There was a flicker of concern, a flicker that Sherlock buried beneath a small sigh that was meant at least in part to distract himself from exclaiming out in frustration.

"Please?"

"No."

"I'll make you coffee."

"No."

"I'll get you a girlfriend."

"No."

"I won't do any experiments for a week."

"Answer's still no."

"Please."

"Nooooope."

"Joooooohn. Please?!"

"No, Sherlock, stop trying to convince me!"

But it was already obvious that John was beginning to cave in.

"…John. John. John. John. John. John. John. Jooooohn. John! John! /John/! Jo—"

"FINE. Fine, I'll go to the bloody stupid house with you, all right? Happy?"

Oh, sweet, sweet success. On the inside he was giving himself a high five and jumping around for joy. "Yes. Start packing, we're going to need a lot of time to work on this particular case."

This definitely wasn't for money or fame or anything like that… no, this was now for his own amusement and he wanted John to accompany him so that he had someone to talk to, a human presence that actually cared about what he said. The skull was his next option but skulls couldn't respond to what you said.

By eleven that night both Sherlock and John had packed their things, including clothing and hygiene necessities, a few scientific instruments in Sherlock's bag. Both were anxious about the place… the name itself was intimidating and if that alone sent chills to their spines, then being in the actual location would be worse.

But with fire came water, and every fire needed to be tamed.

One could say that the Murder House was a fire.

And they were the water.

It was time for a wash-down.


End file.
